Chapter 5

The storm broke just before dawn. Pale morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of the guest room.

Gene woke up exactly at six. Her eyes snapped open, clear and focused. The terror of the previous night was gone, locked away behind a wall of cold resolve.

She showered and dressed in a pair of tailored beige trousers and a soft cashmere sweater. She opened her door and stepped into the silent hallway.

Her stomach gave a sharp, hollow ache. She hadn't eaten a single bite of dinner. She needed caffeine.

She walked down the sweeping staircase and headed straight for the massive, open-concept kitchen. Several maids were already prepping breakfast. When they saw Gene walk in, they immediately stopped chopping and looked away, their eyes darting nervously.

Bridget McCoy, the head housekeeper who had served Eleanor for twenty years, stood behind the marble kitchen island. Her arms were crossed over her thick chest.

Gene ignored the hostile stares. She walked directly toward the gleaming espresso machine, reaching for the freshly brewed pot of coffee sitting on the warmer.

Bridget took a heavy step sideways, using her large frame to block Gene's access to the machine. She looked down her nose at Gene with a sneer.

"That pot is Jamaican Blue Mountain," Bridget said, her tone dripping with condescension. "It is brewed specifically for Madam Eleanor and Miss Blair. There is none to spare."

Bridget pointed a thick finger toward the stainless steel sink. Sitting on the counter was a chipped mug filled with lukewarm, instant coffee from the day before.

"That is yours," Bridget sneered.

The maids in the background exchanged quiet, mocking smiles. They waited for Gene to lower her head and take the garbage coffee.

Gene looked at Bridget's smug face. A cold, terrifying calm washed over her. She slowly pulled her hand back from the machine.

She didn't walk toward the sink. Instead, she reached out, grabbed the glass handle of the Blue Mountain coffee pot, and lifted it off the warmer.

Before Bridget could react, Gene tilted her wrist.

The steaming, dark liquid poured directly into the stainless steel trash can. The hot coffee hit the plastic liner with a loud sizzle. The rich, expensive aroma filled the kitchen instantly.

Bridget gasped, her eyes bulging out of her head.

"Are you insane? !" Bridget shrieked. "You stupid bitch, you dumped the Madam's coffee!"

Furious, Bridget shoved both of her heavy hands hard against Gene's shoulders.

Gene was braced for an impact, but the woman outweighed her by fifty pounds. Gene stumbled backward, her shoulder blades slamming hard against the stainless steel doors of the industrial refrigerator.

Before Gene could push herself off the fridge to retaliate, the swinging louvered doors of the kitchen were shoved violently open.

Donte walked in.

He was wearing a black, fitted athletic shirt and sweatpants, his chest rising and falling slightly from a morning run. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto Gene pinned against the fridge.

The temperature in the kitchen plummeted. The maids stopped breathing. Bridget's face drained of all color, her mouth hanging open in horror.

Donte crossed the kitchen in three massive strides. He stopped right in front of Bridget. The sheer size of him, radiating pure, lethal anger, made the housekeeper shrink back.

"Who gave you the authority," Donte's voice was a terrifying, quiet whisper, "to put your hands on my family in my house?"

Bridget's knees knocked together. "Sir-Mr. Gallagher-she dumped the coffee! I was just-"

"Shut up," Donte cut her off. The command was absolute. "I saw a pathetic employee attacking the wife of my nephew."

Donte didn't even look at her anymore. He turned his head slightly toward the doorway, where his assistant had just appeared.

"Severance is denied," Donte ordered coldly. "Get her off my property in ten minutes. And make sure she is blacklisted in the industry. She will never work in a house on the East Coast again."

Bridget collapsed onto her knees, sobbing hysterically, begging and pleading, invoking Eleanor's name. Donte didn't blink. The security guards walked in and dragged the weeping woman out the back door.

The kitchen was dead silent.

Donte turned his back on the remaining, terrified staff. He walked over to Gene. His dark eyes scanned her shoulders, checking for injury.

Without saying a word, Donte turned to the backup espresso machine. He grabbed a fresh bag of beans, ground them, and tamped the portafilter with practiced, elegant precision.

Three minutes later, Donte turned around. He held out a small porcelain cup of steaming, perfect espresso.

"You don't need to take out the trash yourself," Donte murmured, his voice low and intimate.

Gene reached out to take the cup. Her cold fingertips brushed against his warm knuckles. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. She looked up, her breath catching as her eyes met his deep, endless stare.

A sharp gasp echoed from the doorway.

Eleanor stood there, clutching her silk robe, staring in absolute horror at the sight of the untouchable Donte Gallagher making coffee for the woman she despised.